


The King and his Would-Be Royal-Assassin / Potential Wardrobist (and an Interfering Mabari)

by beetle



Series: The King and his Corbie [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening
Genre: Alistair and Zevran aren't too bright though, Alistair is Oblivious, Alistair/Zevran Pre-Slash, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Barkspawn is a mastermind, But not necessarily in love interests, But not sophisticated doesn't mean not good, Declarations Of Love, Dirty Talk, Eventual Romance, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Grief/Mourning, Happy Ending, Hope, Humor, In-you-EN-d'oh!, King Alistair, Love Confessions, M/M, Mentions of Cousland Potential Warden, Mentions of the OGB, Minor Alistair/Female Warden, Mutual Pining, POV Alistair, Past Alistair/Female Warden UST, Past-Alistair/Morrigan, RIDICULOUS mutual pining and obliviousness, Sexy Zevran, Smut, Survivor Guilt, Trope-ish Misunderstanding and Wrong Assumptions, Warden Tabris (Dragon Age), Zevran Arainai Flirts, Zevran Arainai is a Good Friend, Zevran being Zevran, Zevran has sophisticated tastes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-24
Updated: 2018-09-24
Packaged: 2019-07-16 07:23:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16081280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: Nearly eight months after the Hero of Ferelden saved Thedas from the Fifth Blight, the heir to Ferelden’s throne, as well as his retinue (such as it is), have settled into a stable routine. King Alistair Theirin and his closest friend—well, closestaftera mighty and canny war-dog named Barkspawn—have also found their own personal routine of dancing around the truth and around each other. It’s become part of the status quo. But when things suddenly get awkward, frustrating, exasperating, and downright infuriating between the new king and his friend, former-assassin and future fashion-maven, Zevran Arainai, it’s really too close to call which of them is dense-er and more self-martyring than the other.Thankfully, when it comes tothismonarch and his favorite ex-soldier of fortune . . .Barkspawnis the smartest guy in the room, so to speak. Plus, he has epic, matchmakingskillzand enough drool for everyone.





	The King and his Would-Be Royal-Assassin / Potential Wardrobist (and an Interfering Mabari)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Dragonflies_and_Katydids](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dragonflies_and_Katydids/gifts).



> Notes/Warnings: AU set post-DA:O by less than one year, but pre-DA:A. SPOILERS for DA:O. AU in two important ways: Alistair is bisexual, and there’s a small, but integral twist on the Fifth Blight’s ending, which is laid-out in the series summary page and implied/alluded-to in this fic. Mentions of major character death. Banter, angst, humor, smut. Happy ending. Mabari drool and training-field dirt. Outbuildings and sheds. Rakes and buckets. Mentions of UST pairings and past pairings. _Definite_ RST for the main pairing.
> 
> Translations of Zevran’s _Antivan,_ marked by asterisks [ ***** ], can be found at the end of the fic, with each phrase marked by the corresponding number of asterisks.

 

“. . . and who’s the biggest, stinkiest, _dirtiest_ boy? _Barkspawn!_ Barkspawn is the biggest, stinkiest, dirtiest boy! Yes, he is! He _very much_ is! Ah-ha-ha— _blegh_!”

 

Alistair laughs and averts his face as best he can from Barkspawn’s eager-drippy tongue, while blocking said tongue with his right arm. The sleeve of his fancy, auburn-ish tunic is soon sodden. And practically all the way up to Alistair’s shoulder.

 

And though, the tunic isn’t really _that_ fancy—it’s only fancy if one is _not_ used to being king of something and having the attendant wardrobe; and after five whole months of warming Ferelden’s throne, Alistair’s _almost_ getting the hang of fanciness . . . though, not _really_ —Alistair does feel a bit bad about the launder-women who’ll have to find some way to get dirt, drool, and probably other less-than-savory effluvia out of . . . velveteen? Alistair isn’t sure of the material, he’s simply glad it’s not plaidweave. The bloody fabric never comes in colors that are vision-friendly.

 

Taking advantage of Alistair’s brief distraction, Barkspawn sprawls on the already mostly-prone King of Ferelden like a huge, _heavy_ blanket made of pungent war-dog. Alistair’s chuckles become breathless chuffs up at the overcast sky above the castle. He can barely move to flail under the animal’s solid weight. He knows that in this moment, he looks rather less than kingly, buried as he is under eight stone of difficult-to-shift mabari. Were they anywhere but the bit of grounds between the king’s private salle and archery-course—and in mid-afternoon, when everyone tends to be finishing up duties, so they can retire as soon as possible—they’d have drawn the prurient attention of half the bloody castle.

 

As it is, Alistair had purposely chosen to take Barkspawn on this _second_ post-lunch walkies in the most secluded area he could think of without consulting a map of the castle and grounds. Two-thirds of the way from the lined-up archery targets, and on the way toward the squat weapons-storage outbuilding abutting the salle—as well as the even more economical utility/gardening shed that was one of many on the grounds—the energetic mabari had all but ambushed a distracted Alistair. _Tackled the King of Ferelden_ to the mostly-bald ground, ready with slobbery kisses and stinky-breathed affection.

 

But thanks to a little foresight, for once and at last, Alistair _doesn’t_ have to overburden himself with propriety or the _proper demeanor_ of a king still building his reputation.

 

Granted, Alistair still frequently asks himself: _If a king_ can’t _play with his dog like any Hinterlands bumpkin would, in bloody dog-revering_ Ferelden _, then what even is the point of being king?_

 

But he nonetheless often feels obligated to at least pretend to dignity he’s rarely had and may never consistently keep. If only for the sake of Ferelden and her people.

 

 _His_ people.

 

Despite all that, for once, he feels as if he can _breathe_ and just _be_ , now that he’s out of sight of the stuffier of the eyes that seem to always be on him these days. Well, out of sight of all but his surprisingly stealthy personal guards (who follow him discreetly even if he’s simply stepping out of the main castle, never mind off the castle grounds and into Denerim, proper) and some of the gardeners and grounds’ staff. All of whom would hopefully _approve of_ and be reassured that their new king is at least a person of quality, in that he’s earned the love and loyalty of not only _a mabari_ , but the revered _Hero of Ferelden’s mabari_.

 

So, Alistair allows himself to roll around on the bloody _ground_ with his bloody _dog_. And he has _bloody-good-fun_ doing it, too. Fun, of the sort he hasn’t enjoyed since before he’d left Redcliffe for Templar training eleven years ago.

 

He’d forgotten just how much fun it was, drool and stink, aside. Though, when he’d been a child, the dogs he’d rolled around and played with hadn’t been mabaris. And they’d been less than half the size and weight of even a relatively compact mabari, actually.

 

Barkspawn is _many_ things, but _compact_ isn’t any of them.

 

“Unnh! _Someone’s_ had an unusually large lunch, I’ll wager! _That_ explains the insistence on second-walkies so soon after the last one! I _do_ hope I’m not looking like a large shrub to you, you great, slobbery menace!” Alistair chuffs out between breathless snickers and guffaws. Barkspawn responds with cheerful, not-at-all reassuring barking, and his weight, stink, and slobber seem to double.

 

No . . . _triple_.

 

“Ugh! There isn’t enough washing in Thedas to salvage these bloody clothes—I hope you’re happy!”

 

 _Woof_!

 

“Yes, well, that’s a rather shameless admission, even for a dog. But, I suppose I’m not _too_ surpri—”

 

“If you and Barkspawn insist on displaying such free and enviable affection for each other, for _both_ your reputations’ sakes, you might choose to vacate _this_ area for somewhere more secluded. Such as Denerim’s main square.”

 

“NYAAAAGH!” Even with a titanic heave, Alistair only _barely_ manages to shove the mabari’s squirmy-heavy bulk off himself and his fancy-filthy king-costume. He then bolts to his feet, startled, mortified, gasping, panting, and chuckling all at once. And all _very_ nervously. Slightly off to the side and whuffing with clear amusement, Barkspawn comes back to lean against the backs of Alistair’s legs, like a fuzzy, warm, lazy tree-trunk.

 

In front of Alistair, both too close and too far away, is Zevran Arainai.

 

“Zevran! It’s—er . . . hullo, Zevran! Look, Barkspawn!” Alistair bibbles less than coherently, blushing and laughing. Zevran—looking quite calm and pulled-together in his usual earth-tones, accented in Theirin green and argent—is smirking absently. And only more so, as Barkspawn proceeds to butt his gigantic head at the backs of Alistair’s thighs with a lazy, but not negligible mustering of mabari-strength. Incidentally bulling and herding Alistair closer to Zevran. “It’s, er, Zevran! Huzzah! Erm, yes!”

 

The young mabari—intelligent, of course, and not _just_ for the most coveted breed of war-dog in Southern Thedas—whuffs in response, and butts all the harder, throwing off Alistair’s dubious equilibrium entirely. The war-dog at last leaves off his bulling and herding when Alistair finally stagger-stumbles forward several huge steps, only to be caught by Zevran’s strong, steadying grip on both biceps.

 

Alistair stares into Zevran’s face as he’s steadied. Zevran stares right back. Then, his bronze-and-brass eyes drift down and to Alistair’s right.

 

“Such a stinky and treasonous rebel you are, my four-legged friend!” he notes, casting a merry smirk at Barkspawn, who whuffs again, as happy and agreeable as a puppy. Snorting, Zevran’s eyes tick to back Alistair’s again, bright and dancing. “Ever must his majesty be ‘ware of betrayal from supposed intimates, eh?”

 

“Er. Yes. Ha, um, quite. And _thank you_ , Zev. For the, er, quick reflexes. That fall could’ve cost me my dignity . . . what little I’ve managed to retain or accrue.” With an anxious, still-breathless, idiotic guffaw, Alistair straightens, wobbles once more, then exerts himself to not topple either forward on Zevran or backward on his bloody nuisance-mabari. He’s not helped along, however, by Zevran’s fixed, _intent_ gaze, locked on him as if he’s a target of some sort.

 

But, if not for elimination, Alistair can’t imagine what Zevran might target _him_ for. Though he _knows_ it’s _not for elimination_. Not after . . . everything. Not after time spent traveling, questing, and _somehow_ helping Ferelden’s greatest hero—the most lauded and celebrated since Alistair’s own ancestor, King Calenhad—stop the Fifth Blight right in its wicked, predative tracks.

 

 _Only two Blights—two Archdemons left. May the last of the Old Gods sleep until the End of Ages and the Maker’s return_ , Alistair thinks, brief and grim and superstitious. As ever he has, with the passage of time and the loss of so many selfless mentors, brave peers, and heroic friends . . . so many people he still admires and _still loves_ so much, that their absence will always throb and sting and _burn_ him. . . .

 

Zevran’s been watching him closely, Alistair realizes when he surfaces from his brief bit of brooding. Those platinum brows—paler, even, than Zevran’s fine, cornsilk-hair—are slightly furrowed, and the bronze-and-brass eyes flickering below both are no longer amused, but solemn.

 

“I can only imagine that keeping her friend and fellow Grey Warden—who also happens to be her king—from breaking his neck or giving lie to his thin veneer of supposed poise, would be what our kind-hearted Kallian would do if she were still with us. And the task she would have bequeathed our noble company and myself, had she known she would not be,” Zevran adds, his smile suddenly looking propped-up and put-on. Rueful, even.

 

Alistair doesn’t know why he’s so certain of that rue. Not when Zevran Arainai can be one of the most complex, opaque people Alistair’s ever tried to figure out. Even more so than Alistair’s late Warden-Commander, Duncan—and _far_ more than their mutual _friend_ : Kallian Tabris, the Hero of Ferelden. Kallian had been an open book in so many ways . . . with a heart as unshielded and unobscured as a pristine pane of glass. . . .

 

Cue Alistair’s breath catching and his heart stumbling in quite a different way than it _usually_ does when inspired to do so by the things Zevran sometimes says.

 

“I . . . am sorry, my friend. Half-one-year living amongst you _refreshingly_ blunt Fereldans and already I find myself saying any tactless irrelevancies that pop into my head. Ah.” Zevran glances down, his eyes narrowed and his hands sliding down Alistair’s arms. Then away. And though he immediately misses their weight and warmth, Alistair automatically steps back, flushing and flustered. Barely one step away he’s halted by Barkspawn’s panting bulk. Zevran sways forward instantly, as if about to close that brief distance . . . but then doubles it when he, too, steps back. After a strange, protracted moment, he bows stiffly. “I apologize, your majesty—”

 

No longer blushing but blanching—paling so quickly that his face feels cold and his head swims—Alistair digs up a laugh that does, indeed, sound like something that’s been unearthed. From a cellar, perhaps. Or a crypt. “Erm, no, I— _I’m_ sorry, Zev. It rarely takes much to send my mood south, lately. Uneasy lies the head, and all that. It’s _not_ your fault.”

 

“The _cause_ of your brooding? Perhaps. Rather, it’s perhaps not _entirely_ mine, though that, too, is debatable. But carelessly recalling for you that which casts a pall over your mind and heart . . . in this instance, at least, I must accept full responsibility,” Zevran says, softly, but heavily. His gaze, when it meets Alistair’s again, is also heavy, but not at all soft. It strikes Alistair as being rather brittle, in fact: a gaze like badly-broken, then poorly-mended bones.

 

“Zevran,” he begins, hesitantly—feeling a bit brittle, himself—one hand reaching out with juddery reluctance. He’s pleasantly surprised when Zevran doesn’t avoid the proffered solidarity, but also sadly unsurprised when Zevran doesn’t welcome it, either. He merely stares at Alistair’s outstretched arm and grubby hand as if he finds them and their purpose incomprehensible. Unfathomable.

 

Yet highly dangerous.

 

“Listen, Zev,” Alistair begins again, taking a single step closer and feeling almost hopeful when Zevran doesn’t match that step with one back. “Yes, remembering Kallian can be painful. Knowing that she didn’t _have_ to die, and that if only . . . well. It’s painful, yes. But whether you’re absent or here to recall the tragedy of her loss, I remember her and think of her— _miss her_ every day. Hourly, sometimes. It’s inevitable, and only a matter of time, as I’m certain you understand. At least with the grief still so fresh.”

 

Zevran nods, his lips pursed and his mouth slightly downturned. “I see,” he says, gruff but still brittle. Alistair takes another step forward—larger . . . large enough that he can rest his grubby-dirty hand on Zevran’s wool-clad bicep. He can feel the twitch-jump of muscles under his hand as he lets his touch settle into a firm, but gentle hold.

 

“Remembering her _loss_ will always make my spirit ache. But with time, my remembrance runs toward the less painful memories. When I think of her lately, it’s far less usual to remember how . . . empty and light and limp she felt after she died in my arms. Most nights, I . . . I don’t even dream of that anymore. And in my waking hours, I’m more likely to recall how she’d filch Oghren’s flasks and then offer him a drink . . . only to hand him his own flask when he took her up on it. Or I’ll remember how she and Leliana used to snort and giggle and whisper together, while sneaking looks at _you_. And sometimes, _me_. How she and Morrigan used to snipe at each other, tense and quiet and blistering. Kallian’s language was enough to make even _Oghren’s_ brows lift, at those times. And I think all of us were surprised Morrigan didn’t transform her into a marmot or a newt or a nug.”

 

Alistair pauses and smiles when Zevran nods, then chuckles, small and slightly choked. When he doesn’t comment, Alistair goes on:

 

“But I most often recall Kallian’s _smiles_. They differed, from person to person, situation to situation. She would smile so soft and sad and wistful, whenever Wynne slipped and called her ‘child.’ Or laconically, yet somehow bloodthirsty while chatting with Sten. Or if Shale would tell one of its _disturbing_ stories or offer its dismayingly skewed perceptions, that smile was fond and amused . . . and _angry_. Not _at_ Shale, but _for_ Shale.” Alistair frowns a little, but not for long. “And . . . when she smiled at Barkspawn or at you, her smile was sunshine: warm and bright and all the light in this world.”

 

Zevran’s eyes are wide and brimming with such a surplus of emotion, it’s rather breathtaking to Alistair.

 

“And yet,” the former assassin offers, quiet and still a bit choked, “such smiles were _nothing_ , Alistair, when compared to the way she’d smile while looking at _you_ , when _you_ weren’t looking back. When she spoke of you or even thought of you.”

 

“I—” flustered but not flushed, for once, Alistair lets out his breath completely, in one fast gust: as if he’s been gut-punched. “I . . . are you . . . are you serious? Or just being kind?”

 

Zevran smiles again, small and bitter and sarcastic. “ _Kindness_ is not my natural bailiwick, Majesty. It may never be. Thus, I would not lie simply to spare your feelings or give you false comfort.”

 

Alistair’s brows lift doubtfully, and he steps closer, also tugging on Zevran’s arm to get him to do the same. “Once upon a time, I’d have believed that without question.”

 

“Yes, well, once upon a time, you were a marvel of entrenched cynicism.” Shrugging, Zevran gives a light, seemingly token tug on his arm as if to free it, then sighs and gives up his attempt. “Despite more than half a year spent neck-deep in the politics of royalty and nobility—even these _earthy_ Fereldan royals and nobles—you’ve not refined that cynicism, which I’d found so promising in our early days. In fact, you’ve apparently cast it aside completely. How disheartening.”

 

Alistair’s brow furrows a little, then quite a bit more as Barkspawn—who Alistair had forgotten was even there—barks once, impatient and sharp, and starts butting the backs of his legs again. Alistair shifts a bit closer, not entirely as a response to Barkspawn’s incomprehensible doggy-whims. In truth, it’s difficult to divine his own motives, instincts, and intentions whenever he takes or makes an opportunity to be closer to Zevran. It’s an especially difficult task to take-on whilst staring down into those bronze-and-brass eyes.

 

“Your eyes,” he mumbles as he thinks it, because, _of course_ , he does. His voice sounds exactly like that of a man awakening from a brief, but restful nap. And when both Alistair and Zevran realize there isn’t going to be a follow-up to that non-starter, the latter’s brows lift a little. Lower, then lift _again_ , his eyes going rounder and brighter than newly-minted currency.

 

“Ahhh.” Zevran blinks rapidly, flushes noticeably—even the tall, pointed tips of his ears—and his nose wrinkles. Fleetingly, of course, but nonetheless adorably. For a moment, he looks barely old enough to _anything_. But then, he plasters his _usual_ ironic and amused expression on his angular, strongly handsome face. And his usual _ironic and amused_ smirk on his incredibly distracting mouth. He chuckles almost nervously—a first, in Alistair’s experience—and swipes his pouty, also-distracting lips with a pointed tongue-tip. “What about my eyes?”

 

Now, Alistair chuckles and flushes. “Erm. They’re . . . an interesting color and shade. . . .” he trails off, too caught in those self-same eyes, yet again, to magic up a suitable segue to something— _anything_ —else.

 

Zevran snorts and his mouth curves in a wry, but not quite sarcastic crook.

 

“Your Majesty might perhaps prioritize seeing _more_ of Southern Thedas than the bucolically beauteous Ferelden. Even a quick, diplomatic visit across the Waking Sea, to the Free Marches—especially Tantervale—would expand your fledgling color palette quite remarkably.” Zevran’s smile warms and becomes fond as he glances down at Alistair’s dirty, auburn-ish doublet and matching breeches (gathered, pleated, _and_ cuffed, as apparently befits a King of Ferelden), then at his own. “I assure you, my liege, that there are more vivid and eye-catching color-groupings—or stately and subtle ones—in this world than earth-tones, stains, and light tinctures. After all, one cannot always color fabric as if it’s meant for heavy farm labor or heraldic crests, respectively, yes?”

 

“Erm. Yeeeesss?” Alistair tentatively agrees, glancing doubtfully down at his semi-finery, then down at Zevran’s, since that’s _always_ the pleasanter option no matter what it’s up against. And since the current _other option_ is parsing whatever charmingly-lengthy tangent Zevran’s gearing himself up for, Alistair is content with gazing for the moment. Following whatever Zevran’s on about will simply have to happen—or not—in its own time.

 

“. . . and as you are very much a late fall—or perhaps an early winter—it is odd that your Wardrobist and their assistants insist on clothing you in—”

 

“I’m sorry, my _what_ , now?” Alistair instantly interrupts because for once, something has brought his brain up short enough that staring at Zevran’s always-groomed and poised form, in wistful, but agreeable silence—and letting his imagination drift into nebulous daydreams that he refuses to let himself remember once he’s dropped out of them—comes in as a close-second for his focus.

 

“Your Wardrobist,” Zevran says again, shrugging. Then frowning _deeply_ when Alistair still looks blank and questioning. “You know, the . . . _supposedly_ well-meaning soul and their apprentices, who keep, lay out, and order your majesty’s attire. Not to mention, organizes and coordinates your outfits, and . . . you don’t have those in Ferelden, do you?”

 

“Erm. Possibly? But if so, I’ve never seen or met or heard of them. Nor did I know that their occupation was a thing that existed.” Alistair’s face is so hot, he knows it must be an especially abominable shade of mashed beet. Under all the training field-dirt, anyway.

 

“Then—” Zevran pauses and shakes his head in puzzlement, biting his lip and giving Alistair a slow, critical once-over. “You know, your majesty, since there is no Wardrobist, I was going to demand and denounce the name of this ruthless, shameless crown-traitor who is in-charge of your sartorial purchasing, but . . . I’m speaking with him, aren’t I?”

 

Alistair’s face very suddenly contains at least a full-third of all the blood in his body. It’s mere seconds before he’s forced to wonder how he’s still upright. “Well—look, when, er, Fergus Cousland was in Denerim a few months back, visiting Arl Eamon, he went quite out of his way to ask an audience of me. He was very optimistic and supportive and . . . he gave me the name of his tailor in Denerim—”

 

“Ah!” Zevran exclaims, and Alistair jumps a little. “The plot thickens! What other kind recommendations and humble suggestions did the Teyrn of Highever bring with his tidings?”

 

“Oh. Erm.” Alistair frowns and glances off in the direction of his stables—not that he can even see them from this vantage point. But there’re more bloody horses in it—almost all from Horsemaster Dennett’s hardy, coveted stock—than Alistair has either lifetime or arse to make use of. Though Alistair certainly wishes he could try right now: ride free and far on his noble steeds. It’d certainly be better than the many unexpected turns this conversation is taking. “Fergus, er, mentioned that his sister—erm, not Aeda, the one with all the hair and the strange laugh, but the younger one . . . Lady Elissa, the archer—is of, er, marriageable age by a year or two, and quite intrigued by the idea of a visit to Denerim. Which she has never, ah, seen.”

 

“What? She’s never seen Ferelden’s great and shining metropolis? Such cruelties life has placed on the lady’s lovely shoulders!” Zevran exclaims with affront, but without a dram of sincerity. In fact, his voice is rather stonily dismissive. “Lady Elissa must be a true testament to the strength and perseverance of Ferelden’s fairer, slightly less hirsute sex!”

 

“Don’t be a prick, Zevran,” Alistair says automatically, with equally automatic disapproval. Zevran sighs dramatically.

 

“Ah, you ask too much of me, my king. Though—as always—for you, I shall endeavor to comply. Pray, tell what other news did Teyrn Fergus bring? Aside from a source for fabrics and, ahem, _clothing_ in the world’s most depressing and dour color-palette?”

 

“Zev,” Alistair sighs, shaking his head and pinching the bridge of his nose. But Zevran’s off on one of his surprisingly straightforward—in tone, at least—rants and clearly won’t be stopped by anything other than the Maker’s return and forgiveness.

 

“I _do_ hate to spoil your very heartwarming bromance with the teyrn, my king, but I believe Lord Fergus is attempting to do one of two _very_ devious—possibly _seditious_ —things.”

 

With another sigh and squeezing his eyes so tight-shut, they ache, Alistair simply plays along. He knows Zevran won’t be swayed or distracted until he’s made his point and gotten whatever rabid rat of conspiracy/betrayal is gnawing on his twisty brain, out into the air. Where, he likely hopes, it will be taken seriously, acted upon, and thus leave him be. “Right. Of course, he is. Bloody mastermind, too, no doubt. Both sneaky _and_ snaky. A sneak-snake—and dedicated at it, too, if he’s finding the time to be anything besides nominally upright. What with personally spear-heading and coordinating efforts with Highever’s leaders—as well as coordinating with Arl Eamon’s, and also with most of the Bannorn that can spare people, time, and resources, _not to mention_ _my_ councilors and specialists—to rebuild devastated towns not just in Highever Teyrn. And sending volunteers _further_ afield, on top of all that, even as far south as the remains of Lothering, and the northernmost Wilds. Yes, for those few minutes per day when he’s not working, solving problems, or falling asleep over maps and meals . . . he’s quite perfidious, is Fergus Cousland.”

 

Perhaps that hadn’t come out quite as conciliatory and patient as Alistair had meant. Zevran, however, doesn’t even seem to notice.

 

“Precisely! I think he might be trying to destroy your reputation,” Zevran says, seemingly without pause or irony or sanity. Alistair groans and shakes his head again, closing his eyes once more. Because even though, during rants and hypothesizing such as this, it’s _more_ than obvious that Zevran’s as mad as six wet cats in a very small and smelly barrel . . . these are _precisely_ the moments in which Alistair finds him most affecting, for some reason.

 

Almost . . . _endearing_ , really. Like a paranoid, but adorable lunatic.

 

These are the moments in which Alistair’s most likely to be caught in Zevran’s wide, bronzy eyes, and held by their directness and disinclination to dart away—as so many eyes have and do, now that Alistair’s king. _In these moments_ , he feels as if he’s standing on the brink of some abyss and about to fall in—fall _forever_ , and never be found. Which isn’t nearly as frightening an epiphany as the realization that he _wouldn’t mind_ the falling at all.

 

“. . . I admit _that_ scenario is rather more likely than the first two, for such as Fergus. Or it may be both? Though, I doubt he’s crafty and cutthroat enough to hedge his bets in this way. No, I think that all these favors and enticements—if one is kind enough to classify them as such—are to a very specific end.” Zevran’s tone is grim and his gaze is heavy enough for Alistair to feel without opening his eyes. The conditionally adorable, paranoid lunatic is _probably_ giving Alistair a look that says he _knows_ they’re on the same page.

 

Rather, that Zevran’s _waiting_ for them to be on that same page, and _one of them_ really ought to hurry to catch-up.

 

Alistair sighs.

 

“Which would be—?” When the patient silence drags out, Alistair risks a sneak-glance at Zevran. The former-assassin has a rather stern frown and glower on his face. Both make Alistair’s heart race and his stomach churn. Zevran’s _eyes_ are . . . and _the curve of his mouth_ , even though it’s currently a downward one, _is_. . . . “Maker, just spit out whatever it is you’re implying, Zevran.”

 

“Really, your majesty. I’ve already done enough spitting to put five camels to shame!” Zevran’s tone is sharp, but as jaunty as ever, though his face is still set in stern, somber lines. “He recommends to you a tailor, who then outfits the new, relatively unaffiliated King of Ferelden, in an entire wardrobe of funereal sanguines and mulberrys, with accents in seemingly tarnished [argent and or](https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Heraldic_tinctures.svg).”

 

“Er. . . .” Alistair frowns and squints, unable to remember exactly what color mulberry resembles. It sounds like it might be a shade of purple . . . or brown . . . or, perhaps . . . green? Maybe maroon? Though he can’t even imagine why it should matter what shade of . . . yellow? . . . it might be.

 

But it apparently does. At least to Zevran, who looks quite incensed and offended. His nostrils are flaring, and his eyes are narrowed. “And that _horrifying_ set of summer-weights that was _all_ overdone, purpure pleats and flounced gathers—reprehensible, were they not?”

 

“Er . . . quite? Ah, we’ll make the bastards responsible pay with their lives! Or perhaps we’ll simply stop accepting fashion advice from them, a-ha-ha. . . .”

 

 _“If only_ that would suffice, majesty. If only we could _forget_ the vividly _bleak_ , winter-weight cloak done entirely in tenné, then lined, and edged at the neck and hem with unsettlingly blanched-looking vair!” Zevran closes his eyes as if pained, shudders, shakes his head, and sighs deeply. Alistair fights a snort and grin with mixed success, then clears his throat gruffly.

 

“Yes, er . . . _if only_ we could put this trauma entirely behind us,” he allows with iffy solemnity. _Iffy_ , only because he honestly can’t remember the cloak in question. . . .

 

Zevran rolls his eyes and huffs, as if dealing with a person recovering _very_ slowly from a worrying head-injury. “As we _all_ know, my king, these colors are the _Cousland_ colors and have been for centuries, now, yes? Yes. From crest to banners, all deep and dour and solemn, like an early and bitter grave in winter. _Fergus Cousland_ . . . means to suborn his way closer to—or even secure the throne for _his family_.”

 

“Mm, yes. By way of . . . indirectly fostering my ostensibly atrocious wardrobe?” Alistair’s face is still crinkled, his brow still furrowed—and now, his eyebrows are practically a part of his hairline. When Zevran nods once, still grim and _apparently not_ even a skosh ironically, Alistair huffs. “Yes, his intentions of stealing Ferelden’s throne out from under me have finally been uncovered, thanks to my would-be Royal Assassin.”

 

“Quite. And as your _auditioning Royal Assassin_ , I take my pre-employment skills-assessment exams _extremely_ seriously, my liege. Though, after several months of charming, but ultimately frustrating hemming and hawing from _his majesty_ , I’ve begun to wonder if I’ll ever get the nod, as it were . . . or finally be put out of my misery . . . as _that_ were.” Zevran’s stare is direct and steady—unwavering in its certainty and pessimism, but strangely vulnerable, too. All but pleading with Alistair for something that he can’t fathom well enough to give, let alone give the way _Zevran_ needs and _has been_ needing since he’d first, almost jokingly offered his services as a “royal assassin.”

 

He’s not been at all subtle since, however, about his insistence in creating such a title, rank, and form of employ for the current Fereldan monarch, in the months since that first offer. This, despite Alistair’s rolled eyes and pained sighs. In fact, Zevran’s been exceedingly pushy and very nearly forceful about the need for such a shady position in Alistair’s thus-far transparent reign. Even if, as he’s grumblingly added more than once, said assassin were to be kept as little more than counter-measures against the agents of _other_ monarchies or nations—or more-or-less banded-together confederacies of nation-states, such as the Free Marches.

 

Lately, Zevran had also taken to adding, stiffly and quietly—calm but rather resigned—that if “my liege” is in need of “referrals and vetting of more suitable candidates than I,” he could serve in that capacity, if no other.

 

And, true to form, right now he starts to suggest just that, in the lingering silence between them, his eyes shining and unreadable, but somehow, _more_ miserable than Alistair’s used to seeing them, with Kallian’s death more than half a year behind them.

 

“Save it, Zev,” he orders firmly, only for Zevran’s brows to shoot up in surprise. Alistair clears his throat. “Look, I don’t want one of the hallmarks of my reign as Ferelden’s Defender to be the introduction of titles like _Royal Assassin_. Or _Wardrobist_ , for that matter. So, don’t petition for _that_ job, either,” he adds, and the tight-tense set of Zevran’s distracting mouth relaxes and curves. Alistair’s mouth _also_ curves automatically. It can do naught else in the face of Zevran’s rare _earnest_ -smile.

 

Rather, there’s _one other else_ it mightn’t mind doing, but Alistair strictly tells his mouth and several other interested bits to sod-right-off. That just because Zevran mightn’t mock him horribly for allowing his mouth and related bits to take the reins—mightn’t even be _displeased_ if Alistair let that happen—doesn’t mean that ceding his common sense to daydreams with increasingly Zevran-centric themes and particulars, is a grand plan of action.

 

Just because Zevran’s an _anything goes_ -sort doesn’t mean that _Alistair_ wants to _be_ that anything. Rather, _any-old-thing_.

 

Though, he supposes he wouldn’t mind at all being Zevran’s . . . _something_.

 

(He’s never been a _something_ for anyone. Certainly not for Morrigan, despite their terrifically awkward, rueful, nerve-wracking, and underwhelming night together—spent creating some weird, Old God-baby who would, with Alistair’s luck and Morrigan’s motherly influence, wind up destroying the world they’d all worked so hard to save.

 

And though Alistair couldn’t honestly claim to hate Morrigan as much as he had in the beginning, or even at all, a part of him would always resent her for being _the first_ , when that mantle might have gone to Kallian, had the world been even a little fairer or kinder. Or, had it been fairer and kinder, still, the mantle and permanent wearing of it would’ve gone to—)

 

“My king?” Zevran’s frowning up at him, seeming more than a little worried. Alistair flushes yet again. It seems to be his default state around Zevran, even more than it’d been around Kallian at her wicked-playfulest.

 

“Ah, apologies, Zevran. What were you saying?”

 

Zevran continues to give him that concerned look. “I said: If you don’t wish to make use of my skills as an assassin or as someone with working eyes and a modicum of sartorial taste . . . I’m curious as to what other positions you’d rather have me in? Is there another position for which you might find me suitable?”

 

Alistair curiously notes the brief-low purrs of Zevran’s voice and the _very_ slight pauses before either time he says _position_ . . . but that’s really _all_ he does. He then responds to the topmost-level of Zevran’s statement before the more thoughtful bits of his mind can parse both the husky-hopeful tones of voice and the brief lacunas preceding them. “Well—now that you mention it, have you ever considered trying your hand at being a, er . . . stealth agent?”

 

After an amazed blink, then several _more_ blinks of decreasing disbelief, and increasing rue and disappointment, Zevran lets out an incredulous huff. “A _stealth agent_.”

 

Alistair nods vehemently, even as Zevran’s obvious dissatisfaction and his own nodding jars-loose his rusty, unheeded, and rarely-useful _skill_ at Zevran-reading. It yawns, blinks the sleep out of its eyes, yawns again, and looks around blearily, trying to remember how to do its job. Meanwhile, Alistair gives Zevran’s now-tense biceps a cheerful squeeze. “Yes! As in gathering information, threat-assessment, insight on said information and threats, and using that sneaky-clever mind of yours to help Ferelden stay a few steps ahead, or . . . actually get ahead, at all, I suppose.”

 

That gets another blink, and it’s the slowest, least-pleased of all. Zevran’s actually scowling, now, and in a way that anyone could spot, not just someone who knows him as well as Alistair wishes he did.

 

Though, Alistair can’t for the life of him imagine why Zevran would be scowling so deeply or even at all. And it doesn’t help that now, more than half of Alistair’s mind is taken up with interpreting the non-signifier _purrs_ and the pauses that’d twice ushered them into exasperating being.

 

“You mean . . . a spy.” Zevran’s eyes flicker and his face seems to tremor, as if fighting off an even more telling expression than a ferocious scowl and intimidatingly icy glare. “After all this time and all this . . . _time_ , I’ve asked your majesty if there’s _any_ position, _any at all_ , in which he can imagine _having me_ , and . . . your answer is . . . to offer me employment as a _spy_.”

 

Alistair nods warily. “Well, actually, I’d meant as a _Spymaster_ , since Loghain had the last loyal one put to the sword. Then _Fergus Cousland_ put _Loghain’s puppet-replacement_ Spymaster to the sword, as was entirely deserved.” Huffing, Alistair scowls a bit, too. “After what the Howe family did to poor _Fergus_ —slaughtered his wife and son . . . _his whole family and household_ , but for his sisters . . . anyway. _You_ may not be Orlesian spy-sneaky or subtle, not quite or not _quite yet_ , but then, who _is_ , except another Orlesian spy? But if anyone can learn on the job, not to mention pick up hints from Leliana, whenever she visits, it’s _you_. And she _has_ mentioned that you’d make a rather effective agent, no matter the stealth-level, so—er—”

 

At that moment, Alistair falters because three things happen that utterly banjax his normally effortless blatherskite—something even imminent death has never managed to do.

 

 **Thing One:** His Zevran-reading skill, such as it is, finally kicks into higher, previously unsuspected gear, providing him with insight and context to the purrs and the pauses.

 

 **Thing Two:** Zevran’s face is as still as stone, but his eyes are getting exponentially more frustrated, stricken, and defeated, as,

 

 **Thing Three:** Zevran steps back from Alistair so fast and harshly, he pulls free of Alistair’s rather tight grasp entirely . . . and topples over a _suddenly right behind him_ Barkspawn.

 

His bloody blatherskite broken—if not permanently, then certainly for at least the next thirty-seconds, or so—Alistair’s brainpower has already been shunted entirely to his Templar-trained, Grey Warden-honed reflexes, dexterity, and strength as _he_ _does_ three things. Not quite all at once, but in _rapid_ sequence.

 

 **Thing One:** Alistair lunges for and catches Zevran before he can do more than _start_ to topple backwards and right into a bruised arse and/or broken skull.

 

 **Thing Two:** He hauls Zevran back up. And back up some more. And some more, still, until he’s no longer holding a startled, flustered, annoyed-looking Zevran by the biceps, but wrapping his arms around Zevran’s waist. Ignoring the immutable lines and edges of concealed stilettos, and other murder-helpers, Alistair holds Zevran close, closer—as close as he _dares_.

 

 **Thing Three:** Summoning every ounce of his courage ( _in for a copper, in for a crown_ , he thinks, thrilled and happy and nearly gibbering with abject terror) he pledges himself to eradicating _any_ distance between them. Past, present, or future, and no matter the form it’s taken. So, Alistair locks both their wide-eyed gazes and holds Zevran _closest of all_. . . tight, unambiguous, and pleading.

 

Undefended, too, but also _unashamed_. And . . . _hopeful_.

 

Alistair’s never felt _more_ hopeful—never felt he’s had quite _this much_ to win and maybe even _keep_. Not even when he and the finest people he would ever know had gone questing to save the world from a Blight and an Archdemon, that one time.

 

( **Thing Three Addendum:** Before Alistair’s even fully steadied Zevran, let alone pulled him as close as he dares, then as close as he _can_ —yet _still not_ as close as he wants, since two people inhabiting the same physical space is a literal impossibility—he notes from the corner of his Zevran-focused eyes, that Barkspawn is panting happily. The bloody beast sounds almost as if he’s _chuckling_ uncontrollably. But then he quickly moves back toward, then past Alistair, out of even peripheral view.)

 

His blatherskite still lost to him—and unlamented, for the moment—Alistair stares down into Zevran’s startled, wary-hopeful eyes. He lets his intent, considering gaze travel Zevran’s handsome face down to that clever, sensual mouth and its pouty, perfect, slightly-parted lips.

 

Unequivocal acknowledgement by Alistair, of what he’s wanted and for some time now, is all it takes for him to begin pushing Zevran back and to the left a bit—toward the small utility shed adjacent to the larger weapons shed, and the potential privacy offered by either. Not once does he look away from Zevran’s mouth—well, a _few_ times, but only to lose himself in Zevran’s increasingly happy, increasingly glowing, increasingly _addictive_ gaze.

 

Nonetheless, Alistair steers them instinctively and infallibly toward both outbuildings. Despite his intensity of focus and determination on Zevran’s eyes and _mouth_ , and _Zevran’s_ complete lack of helpful action—that heated, wanton look in his burnished-bronze eyes and the biting and laving of his lower lip really _isn’t_ helpful, _whatever_ Zevran would claim to the contrary—they’re inside the smaller, but nearer utility shed in a trice. Rakes, buckets, bins, and other tools get knocked-over with a cacophonous clatter.

 

And that’s _before_ Alistair gets the door entirely shut behind them. When Zevran has bodily slammed Alistair against it and pinned him with his rangy-lean-strong body, more clatters happen, not that either of them pay heed.

 

Zevran’s physicality, presence, and strength is leaping and rolling, bending and flowing like a swift river. _All of him_ pleases and intrigues and _excites_ all of Alistair, all the time. But never more than in _this_ moment. The bright, vibrant thrum that is Zevran Arainai makes perfect and undoubted _sense_ —more so than anything in Alistair’s life ever has.

 

“You are _breathtakingly gorgeous_ , my king, but also _remarkably obtuse_. I was certain the unslaked intensity of my desires would kill me _long_ before you caught-on,” Zevran admits. His voice has gone a bit hoarse and rough, and his face is a circle of relative pale in the shed-gloom—which is leavened only by poorly-fitted wall-slats, and light sneaking-in over, under, and around the creaking door. In the dimness, his light-colored eyes seem darker than the Void. “Hmm. How pleased I am to be wrong for the very first time in my entire life.”

 

Alistair’s face heats with what little blood isn’t eagerly rushing to fill his rising prick. “I—you—well, yes. No one’s ever accused me of being quick on the uptake . . . but I’ve twigged, at last. So, what’re _you_ waiting for, then?” he whispers, breathless and leaning in as best he can with Zevran keeping him pinned. “What in the bloody hell _have you been_ waiting for?”

 

That sultry look on Zevran’s face is suddenly overtaken by total exasperation and more than a touch of waspishness. “ _Perhaps_ I was waiting for _his majesty_ to pull his royal head out of his royal—and _exceptional_ — _ass_ before I expired of old age? Hmm? Perhaps I was waiting for even a small sign that my interest might be returned? Or—”

 

For once, Alistair’s smart enough not to try out-talking a snarkily ranting Zevran, who’s working on another full head of steam. He simply prevents them both from saying anymore stupid, irrelevant, inane things that are sure to become instantaneous stumbling-blocks. He grabs Zevran’s tunic at the collar and yanks the shorter man up for a kiss which Alistair’s already leaning down into.

 

Alistair starts the kiss, still caught-up in his sudden courage from before the shed. He _starts_ it but really has no plan for how to continue it in a fashion that Zevran might find worth the wait or effort. For, while he’s kissed other people before— _three_ of them, in fact, if one _must_ include Morrigan—the first two people had been well before Duncan had rescued him from life as a Templar. And that third person had, of course, been the biggest bane of his existence, if one did not count all darkspawn and the Archdemon, Urthemiel.

 

So, though Alistair’s the one who starts it, _Zevran_ is the one who not only perpetuates it, but intensifies, deepens, and prolongs it. And he’s the one who _finishes_ it—or at least starts to. He expertly, tantalizingly teases, licks, and sharply _nips_ Alistair’s tongue and lips on his way out of their kiss. But his hands, on Alistair’s waist and arse, respectively, are firm enough to imply a desired claim, without quite asserting total possession.

 

Alistair moans helplessly, shifting and almost shimmying against Zevran for friction—not that he needs any help getting very hard and very fast—and just like that, the kiss is in full-swing, again. At least until a demand for oxygen, as well as an obviously mutual feeling of being overwhelmed, render the kiss little more than mutual panting and shared breaths, with brushes of lips that zing like lightning with ice on its back. Every bit of friction and contact causes them both to swear shakily—especially when Zevran squeezes Alistair’s arse rather roughly, all frustration, yearning, and promise. _Need_.

 

Humming happily, Alistair opens his dazed eyes. Zevran’s are still closed, his face intent and focused— _exquisite_ , in its desire, anticipation, and . . . raw vulnerability.

 

Like a dash of cold water, Alistair returns to himself. To the unerring horse-sense, grounded practicality, and stoic realism that Zevran calls _cynicism_. Said return also heralds the return of Alistair’s occasionally fatalistic bent. After all, _Zevran Arainai_ would never— _should never_ —look this way over _him_. Not when, less than a year ago, that walled-off heart of his had been pledged to a _real_ hero . . . to a real _champion_.

 

Perhaps Zevran _is_ attracted to Alistair—stranger things have happened to Alistair in the past few days, alone. And it isn’t as if Zevran _hasn’t_ frequently expressed admiration of Alistair’s physique and martial prowess (as well as Alistair’s tendency to snark at the drop of a hat).

 

But even so, in this moment, Alistair finds it _agonizingly_ easy to believe that whatever the source of Zevran’s seeming attraction, the other man is simply distracting himself from his loss. From the better part of a year without the love of his life.

 

 _Anything_ Zevran initiates with Alistair—or possibly with _anyone_ who _isn’t_ Kallian Tabris’s doppelganger—is merely Zevran killing time in a superficially pleasant fashion, until something more amusing and engrossing can be arranged to keep his mind and heart off all he’s lost.

 

Which . . . is what it _is_ , and nothing more. Alistair’s daydreams quite aside, he’s known since the beginning nothing could ever come of exploring those imaginings, even if Zevran were similarly curious. Even _ten dozen tumbles—_ though probably life-changing . . . for _Alistair_ , at least—wouldn’t necessarily mean that Zevran’s heart would thereafter be free and likely to ever open again. Let alone that it would be either of those things for _Alistair Theirin_.

 

Despite Alistair’s own thoughts and feelings on the matter, for some, a tumble is simply a tumble, and possessed of no greater significance than that. But Alistair knows himself well enough, to know that with _Zevran_ . . . he could _never_ see even a single tumble that way. Forget _accepting_ the ultimate meaninglessness of said tumble, then having to move on when Zevran inevitably grows bored, or disappointed, or contemptuous of him, as would be bound to happen.

 

“Zevran,” he begins, sighing and regretful, and with every long-held _reason against_ whirling and nattering in his mind.

 

“ _Alistair_ ,” Zevran murmurs, leaning close again and bobbing up, obviously to initiate another kiss. Alistair evades it half-heartedly, but effectively. Not that Zevran makes that evasion especially difficult. His body tenses immediately, and his face goes utterly expressionless as he leans back. Distant. “I . . . apologize, your majesty, for attempting to take further liberties without permission. I had assumed—well, we _all_ know what is said of assumptions, yes? I . . . should absent myself before temptation gets the better of me twice in one, ah, audience. Your majesty.”

 

With that and a brief, shallow bow, Zevran starts to pull away completely. And Alistair starts to _let_ him, only . . . not so much.

 

Not so much.

 

In fact . . . not at all.

 

Zevran’s hooded-hard gaze ticks back to Alistair’s. “Have I not already suffered enough collateral dirt and mabari-drool transferred from your attire to mine, King Alistair?” he asks: light, friendly, nonchalant . . . and icy-wary underneath all that. Dangerous in some ineffable . . . _irresistible_ way that sees Alistair holding on _tighter_ and pulling _closer_ , despite Zevran’s attempt to put space between them.

 

Watching helplessly from almost outside his own body, Alistair sees, more than feels himself leaning in and down as if to claim another kiss—

 

—only to find himself slammed against the door once more, and this time, with rather different intent than to cause a simple, wanton thrill. Zevran has, indeed, put space between them, but he’s got Alistair pinned by the upper arms and with _far_ more strength than had been on display a few minutes ago. His eyes no longer smolder, but scorch and freeze: like the meeting of a swatch of bare, hearth-warmed skin and a midwinter icicle.

 

Of course, since Alistair is the most reasoned and sensible being in Thedas, such a glare only urges him to get closer, still, despite being pinned between a rock and Zevran’s hard-place, figuratively speaking. Zevran, as ever, makes him _want_ in a way that sets all of him a-flush, a-tingle, and a-throb—makes him moan and writhe with the need to simply be closer.

 

“ _Zevran_ ,” he whispers, only for that glare to double-down as Zevran gives him a critical, disdainful once-over. “I want . . . no, I _need_ —”

 

“Not even a year as royalty, and already you’ve gotten the hang of toying with and using those around you for your whims—demanding what you have no right to demand. And _never mind_ the wants and needs of those you stand to hurt or destroy. Truly, you are a royalty-prodigy, my king.” Zevran’s voice is huckstering and cold . . . and still dangerous, just like the dire flicker-threat of his eyes. “Admittedly, I deserve such treatment: to have my affection and weakness thrown into my face and used to devastating effect. After some of the things I’ve done to those who’ve never done me a single evil—and who’ve showed me nothing but love and trust, and received betrayal and death in return—I’m _certain_ I deserve _this_ cruelty and far, far worse. But don’t _ever_ mistake what I _do deserve_ , for what I _will_ _accept_ , Alistair.”

 

“I . . . don’t think you deserve, _nor_ should you _accept_ cruelty as your due. I don’t think that at all, Zev,” Alistair replies quietly, but without a shade of doubt. The flicker in Zevran’s eyes is, for a moment, not a threat. It’s a hope. A _plea_. So, Alistair leans closer, not to kiss, but to rest his forehead against Zevran’s. “There’s little in this world of which _I_ can claim certainty. But at the head of that list is . . . is _you_. And what you _deserve_. I . . . I only wish you still had a chance at it—at _happiness_. At what you _want_ and what you _deserve_.”

 

 _At Kallian, and at a life with the person you love_ , Alistair thinks, but can’t quite bring himself to say. To spare both their hearts, though another one of his doubts is his success at doing so. Because Zevran tenses and pulls away again, his hands biting into Alistair’s biceps for a few moments, before releasing entirely. He steps back, putting even more cursed space between their bodies, his face downturned and unreadable but for the bitter set of his mouth.

 

“Regardless of what I deserve and what I don’t, I _will not stand_ for such toying with my affections from _anyone_. _Especially_ not from someone I have offered to kill for and die for . . . and have even offered to _live_ for. Especially _not_ from a man whom I—” Zevran stops before he finishes the sentence, his mouth shutting with an audible click of teeth. His eyes narrow and his nostrils flare. When he smirks, it’s flat, but still somehow a barb in Alistair’s heart. “Not even from the Theirin dynasty’s . . . _second-last_ remaining heir.”

 

Alistair shudders and sighs at yet another unpleasant reminder that _somewhere_ in this world, a child is soon to be born of two famous, or perhaps _infamous_ legacies: Calenhad’s . . . and Flemeth’s—the original Witch of the Wilds. And even without Flemeth’s witchy-ways being passed down through Morrigan, the child _is_ the re-incarnation of an Old God who’d been Tainted and become an Archdemon for a brief time.

 

Even _if_ free of that Taint now, and thanks to Morrigan’s bloody ritual . . . who’s to say that Urthemiel’s soul had been figuratively untainted even _before_ his waking? And would be so, again, with his . . . mortal incarnation?

 

Alistair wouldn’t place even a single bet that _any_ of the Old Gods had been even marginally decent before their long slumbers and their waking at the touch of darkspawn. . . .

 

Forcing himself to put aside thoughts of the Old God-baby—of his and Morrigan’s _son_ , an heir of the Theirin dynasty, and possibly _Ferelden’s next king_ —as ever he does, Alistair refocuses on Zevran. He’s watching Alistair with attentive, but impersonal eyes and no readable expression. Instinct has Alistair reaching out, if hesitantly, with his right hand . . . as if to take Zevran’s left. But Zevran takes another step back, hitting the wall opposite the door and knocking over a tall rake.

 

Alistair hangs his head dejectedly and is also deeply mortified by his own lack of conviction and honor. By his long-buried _envy_ of Kallian Tabris—for more than the most obvious reasons—and his covetousness of the heart Zevran had given to her without reserve.

 

Though, Alistair had loved her, too, true enough, he hadn’t loved her as much as _Zevran_ had and understandably still does. Alistair’s feelings for Kallian had been more than a little influenced and fostered by hero-worship. That hero-worship had then amplified Alistair’s rather nebulous romantic notions of an old-fashioned, rather Nevarran-styled courtship, like he’d used to read about. . . .

 

What Alistair felt and still feels for _Zevran_ is nothing like what he’d felt and will always feel for Kallian Tabris. Though, at least as powerful and twice as staggering, it has nothing to do with heroism and saintliness, pure hearts or selfless sacrifices.

 

But . . . Alistair wouldn’t pass-up on an old-fashioned romance, if that were remotely a possibility.

 

 _Not that it is,_ he reminds himself firmly.

 

And, as want burns through Alistair’s balls, blood, and being, he realizes there’s no comparison between these two infatuations. Kallian had been a beloved ideal: striven for but not necessarily to be won. Someone he’d been able to love from afar contentedly, with no expectation of being worthy of _having_ in any way.

 

Zevran . . . has always felt as real and achievable as the Earth below Alistair’s boots. As grounded and reachable and . . . _tangible_ as anything ever has been. A dream that, were circumstances to ever align in Alistair’s favor, might come true.

 

Not that circumstances ever _would_ . . . but it’d always felt, and still does feel like they _could_.

 

Especially since, here before Alistair, giving him the coldest of shoulders, is no ethereal _saint_ . . . but a true hero, nonetheless.

 

 _Here before Alistair_ , suffering and grieving behind a thick wall of ironically jaded and charmingly callous personality, is a heart that knows little enough of _purity and selflessness_ , but has proven willing to go to the wall and beyond to sacrifice for what it loves. For what it holds close and dear, and always would.

 

That’s what it would _always_ come down to, Alistair now accepts, aching and resolute. That for Zevran, there are two kinds of people in the world: Those he loves, and for whom he would thus sacrifice and suffer _all_. . . .

 

And everyone else.

 

Alistair doesn’t even have to guess which camp _he’d_ sort into.

 

“I’m sorry,” he tells Zevran, sagging against the door, though he knows he should move away from it, so Zevran can make an exit without having to sodding request that _his majesty, the bloody King of bloody Ferelden,_ get _out_ of the bloody _way_.

 

“There’s no need to apologize, your majesty,” Zevran says, still coldly, and calmly pleasant in a way that he’d probably never aimed at Kallian. She’d likely never given him reason to—had _never_ failed to impress or move Zevran with her deeds, words, and existence, as Alistair always seems to. “Misunderstandings happen. Nations have been built and brought down by less than hasty, ill-timed, and poorly-considered canoodling, yes?”

 

“Yes,” Alistair agrees aloud, but not because he actually _does agree_ (though, he doesn’t disagree, either). He merely hasn’t got it in him to be less than accommodating to Zevran in even so small a way. As if that’d make up for his own shortcomings. “But I am. _Sorry_ , that is. Sorry that I can’t seem to not put my foot in it where you . . . and I suppose where _everyone_ is concerned. I’m sorry that I can’t ever _get it right_ —at least not in a timely fashion. Sorry that I failed you _both_ so tragically the only time my success at something really _counted_. And . . . _I’m sorry that I couldn’t save her for you_.”

 

His voice cracking, Alistair shifts away from the door as much as he can in the messy, limited space, accidentally knocking the one rake that hasn’t fallen over toward Zevran—who irritably deflects it—and also kicking a wooden bucket in Zevran’s general direction. Alistair isn’t even exasperated by this unusual clumsiness, as he’d have been at any other time. There’re so many far less pleasant emotions currently making a meal of him, that _exasperation_ will simply have to queue-up, if it wants a piece of him, _today_. “I’m just . . . sorry. For everything, Zevran.”

 

And he waits. For Zevran to leave—or to say something laden with cutting contempt _then_ leave. But that doesn’t happen. For more than a minute, _nothing_ happens, but for Alistair almost literally shrinking as Zevran’s gaze flays and scorches him.

 

“ _Save her for me_ ,” Zevran finally repeats, halting and cautious, but in a voice that’s genuinely puzzled, if still not at all warm.

 

“Yes.” Alistair turns slightly toward Zevran, who still has an unblocked path to the door, if one ignores the rakes and bucket. Or, rather, if one _doesn’t_.

 

Zevran’s face is strong and familiar, rakish and thrilling. It’s come to represent every beautiful, precious thing Alistair has wanted and every beautiful, precious thing he’ll never have.

 

“If it’d meant a damn, Zevran, I’d have given my life to give _you_ a chance at a life with her. And _her_ a chance at a life with _you_. I’d have died to give you _both_ everything you wanted and deserved. But, as with my entire life and all my best intentions . . . my _death_ wouldn’t have amounted to much, either.” Alistair shakes his head and pinches the bridge of his nose as he laughs. It sounds like the muted, wheezing cackles of a slowly suffocating madman. “Even _now_ , my life is only worth a damn until I give Ferelden another bloody Theirin scion for the throne—one who _isn’t_ also an Old God and an apostate, that is.” Shrugging and hunching his shoulders, he flinches at the startled, unblinking incredulity once more in Zevran’s eyes—in his beautiful, hopeful, utterly floored face. “At any rate, I also apologize for . . . forgetting myself with you. For letting my desires and silly daydreams eclipse the reality of all that you’ve lost.”

 

But as Alistair shifts toward the door to make his escape, Zevran’s expression changes. It becomes irritable, exasperated, and so _relieved_ , it’d be breathtaking if Alistair hadn’t already been holding his breath for who-knows-how-long. Even so, Alistair freezes instantly, as if he’s been hit with a Glyph of Paralysis. And at that same moment, _Zevran moves_.

 

Alistair will never quite remember what Zevran does or how, he’ll only remember impacting the door for a _third time_ , and hard enough that he and the door groan piteously. Only, it isn’t the door that gets its groan soothed, then transmuted to a different sort of groan, altogether, when Zevran does some more implacable, thrilling body-pinning.

 

It isn’t _the door’s_ lips Zevran dives in and up to claim, hard and warring and ravenous, refusing to slow the kiss or lessen its intensity for overwhelming eternities, leaving bruises and scores with ungentle teeth, then laving and lapping at them with rough rasps of talented tongue.

 

It isn’t _the door_ that’s moaning like it’s about to come then _die_ from Zevran’s almost artless grab-and-grasp of its prick—nor about to fall to pieces from untender, demanding, _desperate_ squeezing, stroking, and impatient fumbling with obstructing breeches-hasps.

 

And when Zevran leaves off those biting, bruising kisses to work his way down and mark a willingly submitted throat and neck to similar ministrations . . . it isn’t _the door_ that’s rewarded alternately with wet-worshipful kisses and stinging-tingling love-bites that nearly break skin, and many other things, besides.

 

But even that intensely arousing stimuli is _nothing_ , compared to all of the above, _plus_ Zevran’s bare, callused, facile hand on Alistair’s aching-hard prick, fast and no-nonsense, but still savoring, too. Making time to intersperse efficiency with style and technique.

 

As Alistair’s climax builds and builds to a crescendo which is trying its best to kill him, Zevran continues kissing, licking, biting, laving, and sucking on Alistair’s lips, throat, and neck—his ear lobes, too. He eventually uses his knee to part Alistair’s thighs wider, then shifts about so he can grind along the right one. He rocks feverishly onto and against the solid muscle acting as a buffer to sturdy bone. His needy grunts and encouraging-praising filth is mostly in slippery-fast Antivan and muffled against Alistair’s skin.

 

Speaking of slippery-fast . . . Alistair’s not exactly used to a hand other than his own bringing him off—especially one so skillful and relishing and unrelenting. His own hand, though always satisfactory at getting the job done, is rather _been there, done that_ after a decade of frequent and persistent hard-ons. And the one, mildly traumatizing time he’d lain with her, Morrigan had only touched him the bare minimum she’d had to, to get him hard. Then, she’d been quickly astride him, like some sort of Void-sent wraith, riding him hard and fast until he’d come—had finally achieved release more to be done with that awful necessity, than because the climax had been one worth chasing, or even with someone who might _make it_ worth chasing.

 

Comparing even Zevran’s merest, most negligent touch to _either_ of those prior experiences would be as laughably pointless as comparing water poured from a shallow pitcher to a raging flood.

 

Thus, it isn’t long at all until Alistair is moaning and gasping and _coming._ His release is as scalding and merciless—as _obliterating_ as lava. Everything is blissful _agony_ as he shoots, then spurts, then dribbles all over Zevran’s hand, wrist, and the lower-half of his tunic-covered forearm.

 

By the time Alistair’s done coming, he’s drained, and sags back against the door with all his leaden, tingling-zinging weight. His spent—for the moment, anyway—prick twitches in Zevran’s wet, loose grasp, as if already trying to stand at attention again. When Alistair can manage the trick, he opens his bleary eyes, blinks them clear, and finds himself staring down into Zevran’s familiar-beloved face: his pleased, smug expression and his heated, devouring gaze.

 

“ _Gorgeous_ ,” the former-assassin decides, his voice warmer than July sunshine. Wondering, tender, and contented. “And _entirely_ worth the wait, my king. Worth the taking _and_ the having.”

 

Alistair blushes, smiles, and huffs out a breath that’s almost a chuckle. The motion and shift of that recalls him to Zevran’s rigid state on his thigh, and Alistair shifts it timidly against Zevran’s erection, maintaining eye-contact and his smile until Zevran swears shakily and his eyes flutter shut. Without opening them, he adroitly and singlehandedly undoes his fly with a minimum of separation between their bodies. Then he strokes himself slow and hard a few times, wincing, grunting, and biting his lip, before resuming his grinding against Alistair with a relieved groan.

 

His thrusts are measured and controlled, at first. But they soon gain in speed and force—while losing rhythm and any pacing or restraint—as Alistair’s confidence and certainty grows.

 

It isn’t long before Zevran’s shifted enough and pressed close enough that Alistair can barely breathe, let alone move—and _every_ breath tastes of Zevran. Of musk and spice and a sharp, but ineffable _sweetness_. He grabs at Zevran’s arse _hard_ , with a right hand that’s tremoring and urgent, but determined. Possessive.

 

Alistair’s left hand strokes up and down Zevran’s back as if to soothe and calm, in the midst of attempting the precise opposite with everything else comprising his being.

 

 ***** “ _Ahhh_ , Il mio dolce, il _mio amore._ ” Zevran’s grasping Alistair’s biceps again, his fingertips biting into muscle hard enough to leave bruises. It’s possible that only the wool of Alistair’s tunic prevents those fingertips from breaking skin. “Maker _. . . pietà_ , per favore . . . _ahhhh_!”

 

Alistair happily squeezes Zevran’s arse some more— _harder_ —and with some telegraphed and murmured encouragement of his own. Then with a final, pointed and punctuating thrust against Alistair’s thigh that’s impossible to misinterpret, Zevran leans his head against Alistair’s left shoulder, shudders, and groans loud and long as he comes.

 

His release spills hot and _copious_ on Alistair’s thigh, soaking his breeches—and Zevran’s own trousers, no doubt, as tight-together as their bodies are pressed. The sounds torn from Zevran’s throat are hoarse, inelegant, and primal. Practically growls and muted roars.

 

They’re also _so many things_ Alistair hasn’t known he’s needed until exactly this moment.

 

Finally, with a soft cry as pained, meek, and given-over as a sob, Zevran’s adding his lax weight to Alistair’s, to more choruses of complaints from the abused shed door.

 

For long minutes, they simply stay like that: slumped and pressed together, waiting for breath and heart-rate to slow a bit, if not calm. Then, Zevran turns his face up to Alistair’s, and when Alistair turns his face downward, they stare into each other’s eyes, breathe each other’s air, and _simply exist in tandem with each other_.

 

In the dim light sneaking between the imperfectly-joined slats that form the shed—and around the creaky door—Zevran’s eyes are still darker than the Void. But instead of being cold and empty, they’re _warm_ . . . and full-full- _full_.

 

Alistair’s heart—his _entire being_ expands and _glows_. He grins, big and beatific, and Zevran’s expression turns rather gobsmacked for several moments, before he returns the grin almost helplessly.

 

“I . . . I am _going_ to kiss you again, Alistair Theirin. And again. And then again, _some more_. As well as many other things, besides. Just as I’ve been wanting and _aching_ to do for far too long. Because, now I _can_ , at long last, take these liberties and make these presumptions. So, I will. _I will_ ,” he asserts, low and dangerous, and as if Alistair had suggested otherwise or offered any resistance.

 

“Yes, er . . . please, _please_ do—wait, _what_?” Alistair’s brows shoot up and he licks his lips in nervous anticipation, while noting that Zevran’s gaze is instantly drawn to the gesture. “How long is l-long?”

 

Those bright-hot, danger-flicker eyes tick to Alistair’s again and Zevran’s smirk deepens with beguilingly wicked promise.

 

“Long enough, let me assure you. I’ve wanted this since just after we met, to tell the truth,” Zevran confesses, drawling and lazy, and shrugging absently. But his eyes are wide and hungry. Alistair’s brows lift pointedly.

 

“Just after we met. _Riiiight_. You mean, just after you’d initially tried to murder Kallian, Leliana, Morrigan, and I, yes? And Barkspawn, as well?”

 

“Indeed, my liege.” Zevran is always matter-of-fact and completely shameless when he’s honest, and this time is no deviation. But his eyes are still like smoldering abysses. “And _never,_ until laying eyes and imagination upon _you_ , have I denied myself something I’ve wanted so dearly, for so long a time.”

 

Alistair flushes deeply, the rush of blood from points-south causing a little disorientation that makes him rock a bit to regain equilibrium. Zevran is quick to switch his grasp from Alistair’s biceps to his hips, his thumbs rubbing and soothing in small circles. “You—but . . . what about _Kallian_. . . ?”

 

Zevran’s brows lift a little, as well, but his face otherwise becomes a grim mask. “What _about_ her?”

 

“You . . . are . . . _in love_ . . . with her,” Alistair says aloud and for the first time—through gritted teeth and an aching-tight jaw—both rueful _and_ disgusted with himself. Disgusted with his miles-wide jealous-streak and unending need-greed for what would _always_ rightfully belong to Kallian Tabris.

 

Zevran looks exasperated and rather bitter. But also confused: as if Alistair had slipped into archaic Tevene. “You mean, you _still think _—Kallian was the dearest friend I’ve ever had and the closest I’ve ever had to a sister, really. And the first person I ever truly trusted. Like you, I will always love her deeply, Alistair. But _unlike you . . . I am _not_ and have _never_ been in love with her. It is _you_ , my friend, who are in love with her. I never was.”___

 

Alistair’s jaw doesn’t just release, it drops. For a tiny eternity, all he can do is gape and try to form some sort of word-ish sounds. He’s not remotely successful at it, but he makes a sincere effort and surely that counts for something.

 

“And it’s neither surprising, nor difficult to understand why you love her and doubtlessly always will,” Zevran goes on, shrugging and smiling with more than a little rue and self-mockery. “She was a beautiful woman—inside and out. Even when times were darkest, she seemed to . . . glow. As _you_ did, whenever you gazed upon her. As you do, _now_ , at the mention and remembrance of her.” Glancing down for a few moments, Zevran shakes his head. When he looks up again, his eyes are shining rather more than they had been. “Kallian was a rare gem of a person, but I was never in love with her, Alistair, nor she with me. In fact, it was our shared fascination with a certain strapping ex-Templar in our company that _really_ cemented our friendship. Bonding over the man we both wanted but seemed destined to never have certainly glued us together—practically at the hip. At first for simple moral support and commiseration, but . . . down the line, I began to realize she was the truest friend and person I’d ever known. Indeed, the sort of person _anyone_ could and would love forever.”

 

“Buuuuhhhh . . . whuh?” Alistair blurts, his poleaxed brain staggering about inside his skull like a puzzled, disoriented drunk, looking for stability and any sort of support. Zevran rolls his eyes and darts them to every dark corner of the shed, but not back to Alistair’s face.

 

“When I said _we_ were destined to never have, I meant _me_ , of course. _Kallian’s_ path to you was free and clear, obviously. But she . . . as a kindness to my growing obsession with our fascinating companion, Kallian made no move to act on her feelings for him, and his for her.” Frowning, now, Zevran sighs, and makes himself meet Alistair’s eyes despite evident reluctance. They’re still shiny. “I regret, more than almost any other terrible thing I’ve ever done, letting her turn away from whatever happiness the two of you might have found, had she not been over-worried about _my_ pathetic infatuation. I regret that _so very deeply_. That I cost her _and you_ the brief joy you might have found together before she . . . before the end. And the _weight_ of that regret and guilt is . . . terrible. Often unbearable.”

 

“Zevran,” Alistair finally croaks, all the puzzle pieces— _mosaic tiles_ falling together into perfect, exasperating, _ironic_ place. The picture they make is of a right pair of bloody-damned _walnuts_. Alistair has to fight not to sob himself numb and laugh himself sick over Zevran’s idiocy and his own, respectively.

 

He wins both fights, however, when Zevran shakes his head again, morose and impatient with his confession and his feelings. His hands fall away from Alistair’s hips with hesitation, but determination, too.

 

“And I _know_ you’re about to be comforting and compassionate, as ever, my friend. You have a gentle heart and have been far kinder and sweeter to me than I’ll ever deserve. And you _still are_ being kind, even now. As kind as Kallian was and would have been. _I know_ you would forgive me for the time I took from you both. No, _stole_. I stole your time to be together,” Zevran corrects himself, then takes a deep, slow breath that shudders. “This is a thing for which _I_ will never forgive myself, nor should I. Nor should _you_. What forgiveness can there be for stealing the _one_ Earthly reward the savior of this world was likely to get—but _not_ the only one she _deserved_ —and _also_ cheating the person who could have given her that happiness? If not for me . . . you could have been happy for at least a _little_ while. And _Kallian_ . . . could have _died happy_.”

 

He chuckles, weary and despairing, and when he finally meets Alistair’s gaze again, his eyes resemble abysses more closely than ever. “So, have I not committed the _worst_ of crimes? Of _sins_? To steal time _and_ joy from those who most deserve them, when both commodities are _known_ to be at a premium?”

 

Alistair blinks away the burning around and behind his eyes, and wraps his arms around Zevran’s waist, pulling him flush and tight. Zevran resists with markedly less heart than half, but he looks away again and refuses to meet Alistair’s eyes. When he _keeps_ refusing despite Alistair’s attempts to catch his gaze, Alistair leans in and down, until his forehead rests against Zevran’s once more.

 

“Listen, Zev, that’s . . . I don’t know _what_ that is, or what punishment you think is terrible enough to eventually absolve you of crimes you _haven’t even committed,_ against love and a heroic happily-ever-after. Against _Kallian_ and against _me_. I _don’t_ know how to help you see and _believe_ that you’re not a monster, but just a man who did the best he knew how, at the time—and that that’s no crime at all. But I _can_ tell you,” Alistair whispers urgently, breathlessly. He wants to hold and be held by, kiss and be kissed by Zevran until their arms and legs give out and their lips fall off. He wants to dance and sing and shout. He wants . . . nothing more or less than _this second chance_ at something he’d never got a _first_ chance at. He wants _Zevran_. “I can _promise you_ that I’m not in love with Kallian, either. And I was never quite _so_ entrenched in my bloody hero-worship and my taste for Nevarran romantic legends, as to think that _she_ was the one with whom I _wanted to_ —or _would_ , find happily ever after.”

 

Zevran’s eyes are still averted and downcast, and his body quakes in Alistair’s arms. But his voice, when he speaks, is calm and even. “If she had lived . . . and if you’d thought she would’ve said yes, you’d have made her your queen, Alistair. You _worshiped_ her.”

 

“Er, no. Not really.” Off Zevran’s doubtful snort, Alistair conjures up a limp smile. “Well, sort of? She was my best friend and my hero. _A champion_. She saved Ferelden _and_ the bloody world! Plus, she was quite pretty and funny and sweet. I won’t say I _wasn’t_ drawn to her . . . but I can’t say that I was in love with her, either. In time . . . if we’d _had_ time . . . who knows? Though, _well_ - _before_ we lost her, I’d begun dreaming of someone _else_ . . . of another elven rogue from the Big City. Er, _a_ Big City. I still dream and daydream about him. Incessantly, really. He’s got so far under my skin, I’d dare-say he’s marrow-deep, now. And . . . _heart-deep_.”

 

The response this garners is stunned, vulnerable eyes and a delicate, but deep shiver that takes Zevran’s entire rangy-sturdy body. After, Zevran sags for nearly a minute, his eyes closed tight as he leans heavily against Alistair and simply breathes.

 

Then, sudden and swift, he cleaves closer- _still_ —somehow—and turns his face in toward Alistair’s neck. His breaths are slow, deep, and warm . . . and each one trembles rather sweetly, which makes Alistair shiver, too. Then relax, with previously impossible contentment.

 

“It’s never been _Kallian_. Never _her_ that I wanted to . . . to hold me down and _kiss me_ , until my mouth was bruised and sore. To shove me against load-bearing structural elements, jam a hand down my trousers, and show me literally _the best time_ I’ve ever had. And would _very much like to have again_ , as soon I regain strength in my legs. Then thereafter as frequently as is physically possible,” Alistair adds, and doesn’t even try to restrain his giddy, ridiculous, blissed-out giggle, or the happy, fond sigh that follows it. “It’s _never_ been her that I wanted to hold me and let me _hold onto_ , in turn, and then maybe _keep doing that_ for . . . ever. Never her and never _anyone else_ , for that matter. Just . . . _you_.”

 

Zevran’s body quakes more intensely than ever and for quite a bit longer. Alistair sighs again, closes his eyes, and leans his head and their combined weight completely against the shed door. He turns his face to Zevran’s hair and inhales deeply, letting the familiar and now intensified scents of musk, spice, and both autumn _and_ green leaves—like the best of late summer and early fall, mixed together—soothe what few bits of anxiety and alarm the newly-formed mosaic-picture hasn’t yet soothed.

 

And he doesn’t try to halt his right hand as it migrates admiringly and lingeringly back to Zevran’s arse, then the small of his back, then up to prominent shoulder-blades and on to Zevran’s nape . . . to finally settle and twine in that fine, cornsilk-colored hair for carding and stroking.

 

This, too, is how they remain for more long, peaceful minutes, resting and reveling, relieved and relishing—and soon, lowkey shifting against each other. Catering to their bodies’ increasing demands for contact and friction, until Alistair chuckles, breathing hard between soft, needy gasps. Zevran’s right hand is back on Alistair’s bicep, near the shoulder, but his left hand is scrabbling for the waistband of Alistair’s breeches, after a delightful time spent at prick-teasing. The gentle, warm breaths that had lulled Alistair mere minutes before, have become harsh, hot huffs, mixed with nips and licks and nuzzles. And the sort of unadulterated, slightly disturbing, incredibly arousing gutter-talk that Alistair _almost_ wishes he could feel guilty and wrong for enjoying so _very_ much.

 

 _Ah, well_. . . .

 

 ****** “Sto andando a divorare te, mia dolce. _Bit dopo bit succulento._ ” Zevran growls, licks, and sucks into Alistair’s throat—rough, hungry, and humid-hot on his rabbiting pulse.

 

“I’ll bet whatever you just said is . . . _very naughty_ , haha— _oh, Maker, Zevran!_ ”

 

 ******* “Il mio forte, _bellissimo_ campione. . . .”

 

“Hmm, _m-more_ naughty, Antivan nothings, eh? You spoil me. But, you’ll never top that one time you asked me, d-during a discussion about _employment opportunities_ , if there was another position I’d rather _have you in_ or for which I might _find you suitable_. And in that silly, obvious _tone_ , no less! _Really_ , Zevran.” Alistair snorts, kisses Zevran’s temple, then gasps and moans as the hand down his breeches and squeezing his arse, heads straight for a place no other man has ever ventured. Then, the bold fingers leading the way proceed to tease Alistair in a place he’d never imagined enjoying being teased.

 

“Well, it ultimately got us here, did it not?” Zevran murmurs on the back of a slightly sinister chuckle that makes Alistair flush all. _Over_. “With you _quivering_ to be ravished by me, and me feeling somewhat inclined—lucky for you—and selfless enough to do the ravishing! Providence is on both of our sides, today, ******** _mio glorioso!_ ”

 

Sputtering, Alistair is torn between laughter, and genuine exasperation and offense. “You—insufferable, infuriating, _unbelievable_ . . . absolute _tit_! You’re an _outlandish_ person, _even_ for an Antivan, y’know?” He gasps and scoffs. And _groans_. Zevran, meanwhile, merely chuckles again and continues his merciless fingering.

 

It isn’t long at all long before the testing, teasing pressure of Zevran’s fingertipss against the nervous-sensitive-twitching entrance to Alistair’s body, becomes daring, bold, and determined. Alistair moans huskily, too flustered and lost in the sensation to voice a demand for more.

 

Or, even better: _beg for it_.

 

Not that he has to do either. Zevran is soon rubbing him aggressively with those callused, deft fingertips, reducing the King of Ferelden and his dignity to a trembling, groaning pile of prideless need. One that’s just _aching_ for a sturdy piece of furniture to be bent over. Zevran’s pulse hammers fiercely, flatteringly against Alistair’s lips. “Mmm. Should I have simply been artlessly blunt and forward, as is the custom in my adopted homeland? Should I simply have marched up to King Calenhad’s heir, and offered to bugger him blind? And that, of course, being just for starters?”

 

Zevran’s lips, words, and breath are scalding and sensual on the sensitive spot just below Alistair’s left jaw. He shivers hard and groans _loud_. “You m-might’ve. _Might’ve_ gotten an enthusiastic _yes_ , too.”

 

“Hmmm . . . is that so?” Zevran’s stroking, circling, and pressing are feather-light once more, even though Alistair’s body has relaxed with unmistakable invitation. Certainly, unmistakable enough for a . . . natural progression of things. His body has become a perpetual motion machine, shimmying and thrusting, back and forth between the varied stimuli and exhilarating-frightening promise of teasing, textured fingertips at his arsehole, and the safer, but no less pleasurable friction provided by the front of Zevran’s tunic-covered abdomen. But Zevran leans back a bit, his fingers feinting and retreating, until Alistair opens his eyes just to glare.

 

Zevran smirks up at him, his gaze as edgy and sharp—as _hungry_ as any tiger’s. That smile _does things_ to Alistair he barely has the wherewithal to withstand, let alone break down and explain to himself.

 

Especially when Zevran once more—briefly—presses against his arsehole with just-shy-of-enough pressure to be doing _exactly_ what they _both want_ him to be doing. At least, _for starters_.

 

“ _Zeeevvvvv_ ,” Alistair groans from the deepest depths of his now desperate and whiny soul, and Zevran sighs, sounding almost sated. His gaze is _luminous_.

 

“Ah, Alistair . . . my king, my champion, my _companion_ . . . my _irresistibly gorgeous,_ soon-to-be-deflowered power-bottom—”

 

“Your _what_ , now? _What’re_ you on about, Zev—” Alistair interrupts, confused and furrowed about the brow, and wondering if he ought to be offended. But Alistair bobs up to steal a quick, obscenely lewd kiss that leaves Alistair speechless once more.

 

“ _I want to bugger you blind_ ,” Zevran purrs, low and more of a command than a request. Not that Alistair’s even a little inclined to say _anything,_ but: **_YES, PLEASE! NOW, THANKS!_**

 

“Y-You _do_. . . ?”

 

That’s not exactly the lion’s-roar of unequivocal _want_ that Alistair had intended—and it’s rendered even less impressive by his timorous whisper. But the way Zevran’s smile gentles in response, and the naked need and reverent adoration that shines out of his eyes for a bare moment, _more_ than makes up for Alistair’s less-than-kingly tone.

 

“Mmmhmm. _As starters_ , of course. Also, as the _digestif_ , because we don’t mess with a classic, yes? But _in-between_ those fantastic formalities. . . .” Zevran’s once again _should-be-disturbing-but-is-actually-very-sexy_ smile, grows even wider, edgier, sharper. _Hungrier_. “Ah, ********* mio dolce _innocente_ , I intend nothing less than the complete stripping-away of every last bit of that innocence. And any lingering prudery, modesty, and piety you possess.”

 

Alistair’s shaky knees are barely up to their task of keeping him upright. Admittedly, without the sainted door supporting him, he’d have collapsed into a royal puddle of beet-red king ten minutes ago.

 

“I . . . I . . . _y-yes, please. Now, thanks_ ,” he husks in a breathy rush, and Zevran lights-up so bright, Alistair could read by him . . . if only he currently had a book to hand. And could remember _how to read_.

 

“Excellent, my lusty liege! But first things first!” Zevran steals another kiss, this one sweeter than ten sugar cubes dipped in honey. And when he pulls away some indeterminable time later, Alistair tries to follow with a distressed, longing whimper. Zevran chuckles, pants, and leans back further still. The hand resting on Alistair’s arse disappears with a lingering flirt and flourish. “We secure the largest, hottest tub of water, wash off all this dirt and mabari-drool— _burn_ your hideous Cousland couture—and then we’ll see to your _thorough_ debauchment. The buggering, the stripping-away—and all manner of lovely licentiousness and satisfying sodomy! And perhaps we could make use of some _romantic aides_ and . . . special jewelry I’ve recently begun acquiring? And possibly dabble in light restraint and edging? Just to, ah, see if you discover a taste for indulging in such things! Doing them _and_ , ah . . . having them done _to you_ , of course. . . .”

 

“O-Of course,” Alistair echoes, dazed and confused, still, but also happier and more optimistic—more _excited_ —than he’s been since . . . ever, really. “Erm. What’s . . . er, edging, is it? Does that have something to do with . . . sewing? The, er, fiddly, lacy-bits at the ends of skirts and tablecloths, and such?”

 

Zevran blinks, opens his mouth to reply, shuts it, then blinks again. He shakes his head as if to clear it, then . . . smiles: not sharp and edgy, but breathtaking and radiant . . . like the most glorious dawn a sky ever saw. Alistair returns it haplessly, helplessly.

 

“Oh, my king,” Zevran hums, holding Alistair close and tight. His hands squeeze Alistair’s arse over his breeches and tunic—more’s the pity. Then he busses Alistair’s chin with a cheerful smacking-sound, and hastily shoves his hands between their bodies to tuck them both away. Then, he doesn’t even bother with hasps and such, just tugs both their tunics down _low_. “This is going to be _such_ fun! I am beside myself with glee! Quickly, my liege—to the bath then to the bed! Before the anticipation kills us _both_!”

 

Aroused, overwhelmed, and bemused to the point of unquestioning acquiescence, Alistair lets Zevran tug him away from the door. Then _out_ the door and back into the bright, overcast world—past a patiently waiting and drooling mabari, who woofs an ecstatic greeting and somehow looks at least as smug as Zevran Arainai _ever_ has.

 

Said mabari does _not_ , as he usually does, follow Alistair, whither he goes.

 

Despite his valid suspicions regarding this uncommon discretion from his dog, Alistair is soon _utterly_ distracted by Zevran’s running monologue about a _certain position_ which he thinks Alistair would _quite enjoy_ , called _the sixty-nine_.

 

 _Though, if it’s so brilliant_ , Alistair muses, _why were there sixty-eight failed versions before one finally took well-enough to be_ popular _. . . ?_

 

It’s a mystery, for the moment. Still, he can only imagine that in Zevran’s hands—or Zevran’s . . . _whatever_ —it’ll be amazing. _Everything_ will be amazing—a literal dream-come-true.

 

 _In Zevran’s hands_ . . . well, if the anticipation _doesn’t_ kill Alistair beforehand, the _satisfaction_ of it _surely will_.

 

But since he can hardly think of a _better_ way to go, nor better company to see him off, Alistair simply grins. And anticipates. And lets himself be towed-along in Zevran’s eager, determined—only _slightly_ disturbing—wake.

 

 

END

 

 

* * *

 

TRANSLATIONS: 

 

***“ _Ahhh_ , my sweet, _my love._ [Maker] _. . . mercy_ , please . . . _ahhhh_!”**

 

****“I am going to devour you, my sweet. Bit by succulent bit.”**

 

*****“My strong, _beautiful_ champion. . . .”**

 

******“. . . my glorious one!”**

 

*******“. . . my sweet innocent. . . .”**

 

**Author's Note:**

> **Credits :**
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> [Dragon Age Wikia](http://dragonage.wikia.com/wiki/Dragon_Age_Wiki)
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> Thanks to the members of The Writing Block who helped keep this on track, notably: [LittleLeotas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Littleleotas), [Thegrumblingirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thegrumblingirl), [Ghostofshe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ghostofshe).
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> Thanks, also, to [TheAmazingBlu_J](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheAmazingBlue_J), for reminding me of all the lovely, tried and true tropes at my greedy little disposal. Also, thanks to [ThreeWhiskeyLunch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThreeWhiskeyLunch), for writing [the most three-dimensional Zevran I’ve ever read](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13628034), and giving me something awesome to strive for in my own Zevran-characterization.
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> **Powered by :**
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>  _My Hound & Crow Playlist_ (to be shared after the reveal).  
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> And these three semi-random faves of mine from Blue October helped me write the last third of this fic when I was close to the wire and a little overwhelmed/lost:
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> [you make me smile](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jB1Su57PcjM)
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> [she’s my ride home](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9dTSlD7a8fs)
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> [Into the Ocean](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PP5nZCBUOE0)
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> Special thanks to my fic-recipient, and to everyone who takes the time to read, comment, and/or kudo <3 
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> [Where the Wild Bugs are](http://beetle-ships-it-all.tumblr.com)!


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